Robert James Russell (aka @robhollywood ) is an inspiring writer. He has just finished taking in the submissions for a fascinating project, unambiguously titled “Sex Scene Anthology”. Contributors had to submit a sex scene, disconnected from any context, and preferably not lifted from a longer work, but compiled specifically for this anthology. What’s so intriguing is how difficult it is to decontextualise in this way (which, in turn, casts some fascinating light on the (dis)integration of sex in human life), so many of us have ended up creating more of a short story than a scen. Me included, I’m afraid. This is it.

Decided content warning (and not just for erotic content – severely transgressive material)!!!

Her skin’s so tight, I think as she leans on the sideboard with a juice. Stretched on her like a canvas.

I’d paint her with my cum.

I thought the same the first time she showed up in that half shirt, slapped The Birth of Tragedy on the table and said, “So, for Nietzsche, you’re the man.”

The man. The fucking ubermensch all uber those tight fucking tits.

“I guess,” I said, and our Wednesday night ritual began. Tammy got Nietzsche 101. Sarah got a babysitter and the comfort of some father time for Alice while she yogalatesed away her pregnancy fat. And I. I got to score the taut contours of Tammy’s skin on my cortex, storing it away till she left and I sat, still stiff, and closed my eyes, and imagined it on my fingers. On my cock.

We talked about the ubermensch and Tammy said the idea of a superMAN is just ridiculous, everyone knows a man’s will is in his willy and I thought she’s got a point but damn those tits are so fucking pert.

We talked aesthetics and the pursuit of pleasure and by our fifth session we got to wine, and how to blend the senses and how to separate the senses, and I said let me show you, and got out a bottle of ’47 Cheval Blanc and rested it in the cradle of my corkscrew, slowly cranked the angle, and lowered the screw into place, cutting with delicacy and precision to disturb nothing, and let the wine rest and brought her two glasses, and made her drink the first with her eyes closed and said, describe the difference between these different wines.

Two weeks later she caught my glance and she looked straight back and now she says wait here, and I wait and I can feel my body going into contractions each one pushing my cock harder against the cloth and the door opens and she says, watch, and I start to touch myself and she says no, later, separation of the senses, and walks across the room, my eyes following the path of her tits tight beneath her top, and she removes my clothes one by one, and stands and takes off her stockings and ties one around each of my arms, holding me cruciform to the sofa.

She repeats, watch, and I watch her fingers, and I watch her clothes, and I watch her skin, and when she removes the final pieces of lace the contractions through my body are so strong they lift my spine right off the sofa, and I watch the tips of her fingers and the deft circles she makes, and only one finger from the other hand sliding in and my whole body echoes the thought, how fucking tight, and when her body shakes in orgasm there’s not a sound and she leaves a finger, slowly swirling on herself and says, OK, separation of senses, and stands and picks up my shirt and twists it into a rope and walks over there’s one last sight of her tits closing in on my face and I open my mouth, and she leans over and I go blind and feel the pressure on my skull, and then something smooth, and firm, and tight.

See, she says, laughing because see is the one thing I don’t do but fuck I can feel it, and I strain upwards.

One more moment, she says, and there’s nothing, and I wonder if I hear the sound of her footsteps but I can’t be sure and my mouth’s open and my body’s spasming, again and again, and finally, I hear her say, OK, and there are her tits again, circling on my face, a nipple stopping and lingering against my outstretched tongue, and she repeats, OK, and says, now

and lowers her cunt onto me and it’s so fucking tight I explode before she’s fully down, and this time I hear her scream as well, and she sits there, massaging me gently with her cunt till the last ripple has subsided.

There, she says, the pursuit of pleasure, then there’s only the sound of our breathing and she raises herself off me, and there’s silence, and maybe the sound of cloth, and slowly the thought creeps in like a toothache.

What have I done.

As if she reads my mind she says “It’s OK, no one will ever know I was here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” she says calmly, and I feel her untie my hands.

“Sarah,” I say.

“I know, she’ll be back any minute.”

I pull my shirt from my face and she’s in the doorway and she smiles, and slowly pulls up her skirt and I see her cunt glistening at me. “Always remember tonight,” she says, holding it there and I set my brain to burn the image in my hard drive, and she flattens her skirt down and smiles again, and I look around and

Oh Jesus fuck.

Alice, I think, seeing the shawl on the floor, and her small, pale feet. “You let Alice see that?” I say, and she’s motionless.

And then I see the wine cradle, the metal of the screw stained dark. “You’ve been drinking my goddamn wine?”

Guilt. And anger.

I look again. Not just liquid. Deep, coagulated drops, and something. Not cork. Something.

Stickier. Messier.

Alice. Motionless. Alice’s head peeking out from the cloth. A dark, coagulated stain. Something sticky seeping from the top of Alice’s head.

The metal of the wine screw dark.

My balls still aching.

“Like I told you,” says Tammy from the door, “no one will ever know I was ever here.”

~ by yearzerowriters on August 12, 2010.

10 Responses to “Tight”

  1. that was powerful and disturbing. I had to re-read this story to make sure I read the ending right…

    • I’m sure you did! It’s essentially a revenge story about a woman who gets her own back on a scuzzy creep who’s got his life values way mixed up, and gets – in every sense – what he wanted and deserved. I guess it’s in the same mould as the film baise-Moi

  2. Love it. Can’t wait to see it in print! 🙂

  3. Superb writing in so many ways, analogies, build up, language etc, a level above and intrinsically beautiful. But as a mother I wish I had listened to your warning, the ending for me is soul destroying, so physically chilling, am wondering if writing is always worth it for its own sake when it adds horror to the world. The child here is used as an/object device but I suppose that’s the point within the piece.

    • I think I feel very strongly not just that writers should be able to deal with taboos but that we should keep nudging society to question its own taboos when they become absolutely ingrained. I fully agree we all have or own personal no go areas (mine are very dull and very liberal; I would find it very hard to write a piece questioning liberal taboos about racism and homophobia for example – I don’t think these ARE taboos in wider society though, but that’s not really an excuse), but I’m uncomfortable with the fact we do.

      The piece is, as I said to Sabina, essentially a revenger’s tragedy along the lines of Baise-Moi. The MC believes he is prepared to lose everything else dear to him for the sake of the ultimate pleasure because, of course, he doesn’t really believe it will come to that. It does. Tammy is much more problematic, and this is the problem many people I think saw with Breillat’s film – if she is JUST an avenging angel that’s as exploitative as making her the victime that the MC would have her be. I don’t know if she is rounded enough as a character for me – it’s hard to do that in a flash piece – what I DID want to make clear is that she is messing with the ubermensch notion, and reclaiming it – is her action a denial of her femininity and so playing INTO Nietszche’s hands? Or is it the apotheosis of her femininity by asserting control over the VALUES around motherhood rather than just the physical thing? I don’t know, but I do think the questions need to be out there.

      And I do think society’s attitudes to childhood as much as its attitudes to sex, need challenging. Not necessarily changing, but challenging, so that the principles held are held for good reason. There are so many paradoxes in society’s views of children. Again, paradox isn’t necessarily a bad thing. But unrecognised paradox most definitely is. The foreword to my first novel, The Company of Fellows, is a fictitious quotation from its antihero that I think needs to be thrown into the mix more often. Not with judgement being passed one way or the other, but because reflexes should be questioned:

      “Today’s good secular parent will happily declare, as a good
      secularist, that belief in life after death is nonsense; so forego your qualms and live for today. And as a good parent they will happily declare it a moral absolute to preserve the world for their children’s children’s children; so forego your cars and live for tomorrow. Yet when I point out that there is an inconsistency here, it is I who am held to be mad. Well, after whose death do they believe there is no more life? And who is the madman – the one who points out the inconsistencies, or the one who lives by them?”

  4. This taboo is abstract and intellectualized rather than something more real world like smashing your own child’s head against the wall or a mother leaving her chidren. It stands as an abstract piece and yet you say you are concerned that the woman’s character isn’t rounded enough possibly to fully make your point. In this piece she has no relationship with the child, neither is the child in any way real. She has no voice, if she was alive in the room she made no sound at all, this isn’t real. She might as well have been a chair or a favourite vase. Of course writing can have many levels of abstraction but if we are to believe in it should we believe the characters are real or just there to make a point. Having said that the father-child dynamic just about works.

    About the last paragraph, some things are apparent contradictions only because thinking makes them so.

    • my concern about Tammy’s character is that I don’t want her to be seen as a victim in the piece. Yo’ve put your finger on something really important that a flash piece (I’m still very new to it as a form and working out what the possibilities are) can work either as a fully charcaterisd piece or a piece in which everyone is just a cipher, but maybe it doesn’t work somewhere between the two – in which case there is a danger of putting a little but not enough characterisation into someone. Like I say, what I really want to avoid is Tammy being seen as an object.

      “some things are apparent contradictions only because thinking makes them so.”
      Absolutely, but I see that as all the more reason to think – sometimes history shows us our instincts can be hideously hideously wrong. The best approach for me is intuition-questioning-overcoming paradox through love WHERE that paradox is not fatal to the intuition.

  5. Hmm. Easily readable, nice. But, if I may give some constructive criticism:

    – you say that Tammy should not come across as a victim. However, it is she who commits murder, of a child no less; not the MC. Talk about moral bankruptcy: she loses her humanity, how more victimized can one be?

    – I find the piece a bit sanctimonious. Not necessarily a bad sign for you as I recently thought the same of Imperial Bedrooms, but really, you’re depicting as the devil incarnate someone who just wants to have casual sex with a presumably younger and fitter woman while his wife is out of shape after pregnancy. This is not the height of evil, this is so run-of-the-mill that it turns out to be, if anything, banal. Now you might answer that the reason why it’s banal is that we have lost our collective moral compass etc… might be, but your take is a bit too black and white. JMHO of course.

    • I think there certainly is something to be said about banality – I think the phrase about the banality of evil was coined during the Dennis Nielsen case, but it’s something I associate in literature with Brett Easton Ellis, so the Imperial Bedrooms analogy is probably relevant. I don’t think I’m casting any moral judgments (or not trying to – I think) about the characters, it was more trying to get people to question their moral assumptions about it. It was also, of course, a piece put together trying to fit an anthology where actually the remit was incredibly difficult! You and Alison both raise some points about the way Tammy’s treated I need to have a think about.

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